 | The Eremyte and the Outelawe |  |
171
THE EREMYTE AND THE OUTELAWE.
(A Balade.)
I
Almyghty god, that man gan makeAnd suffred ded for oure sake,
So let us never spylle:
Graunt us alle hys blessynge,
Shryft, housel and gode endynge,
Lord, ȝyf yt be thy wylle!
A man, that wylle synge or carpe,
Be hyt wyth geterne or wyth harpe,
Be hyt never so schrylle,
Ȝyf anothyr be ludder than he,
Lyttyl lykynge ys in hys gle,
But men be fast and stylle.
II
Wyth yn a lytel whyle we have sen,What pestelence ther hath ben
A few yere here byforn.
Unbrest wondrys ther have falle
And many a stronge battayl wyth alle
And also derth of corn.
Ther ben few, that joyen othyr,
Unneth the systyr dothe the brothyr
Of o modyr y-borne.
Vnkyndnesse waxeth ryve;
God graunt us so to thryve,
That oure sowles be nought lorn.
III
Off tweye brethyrn y may you tell,By olde tyme how hyt befelle,
Whylom, by olde sawe.
That on was an errant theff,
To robben and reven hym was lef
And was a wylde outlawe.
That othyr was a gode ermyte,
Off grey clothyng was hys abyte
And dwellyd by wylde wode schawe
And ȝede barfote and nought y-schod;
The heyr he weryd for love of god,
His flesche to byte and gnawe.
172
IV
He wolde comen in no town,Wyth man or woman for to rown,
To bryngen hym in to synne,
As othyr ermytys don now a day;
They rekken never, what they say,
Ne how that they bygynne.
World and wethyr ensampyl schewes,
How man and woman kepen wyth þewes,
Of synne that wylle not blynne.
V
Now mo ye here of thys outlawe,That hawntyd the wyld wode schawe,
To robben men and slo.
As he stode on a gode fryday,
He sey moche folke come by the way,
Barfote they gonne to go.
In hys hert he toke gode hede,
How men and wommen barfote ȝede
And why they wentyn so.
He sey a woman, that come hym by,
Went barfote and was sory
For synnes, that sche hadde do.
VI
As sche come walkyng by the strete,Wyth that wylde outlawe sche gan mete,
Hys bowe bare bent in honde.
‘Abyde!’ he sayde, ‘thou schalt dwelle;
Here anon y schall the quelle,
Styll but ȝyf thou stonde.
‘Syr’, sche sayde, ‘at thy wylle,
For goddys love do me none ylle,
Neythyr schame ne schonde.’
A synful woman have y be
Passyng XXX wyntyr and thre,
Most comyn of all thys londe’.
VII
‘Tell me!’, he sayde, ‘y the hote,Wherfore that thou gost barfote,
On haste tell thou me,
And also othyr men thys day,
Come walkyng by the way,
For what thyng yt myght be’.
‘Syr’, sche sayde, ‘y schall the tell:
Thys day the Jewes Jesu gan quelle,
To saven bothe the and me.
He, that forsakyth hys foly
And Jesu Chryste mercy wyl crye,
Tyl hevens blysse schal he’.
VIII
‘Woman, for thy wordys hendeTo chyrche wyth the wyl y wende,
To wetyn, what men don there;
For by hym, that thys world wrought,
Goddys servise ne hurde y nought
Of alle thys twentye yere.
Never hadde y wyll to huyre messe,
But thus lyved forth yn wyldernesse;
No godenesse wolde y lere.
Thowe men wolde me take and slo,
To chyrche wyth the wyl y go,
Goddys servise to here’.
IX
And as the outelawe in the chyrche stode,He loked aboute, as he were wode,
And grete ferly hym thought.
To the autere he gan wende
And lenyd on hys bowys ende;
So wondyrly ther he wrought . . .
X
Tyl that god hym sent grace,That fayre convertyd he was
Wyth thundyr blast, wynde and reyne
XI
And sythen he was apostyl gode;For goddys love he schedde hys blode;
Hys sowle ys nowe yn blysse.
And ȝyf thou wylt thy synnys forsake
173
So may thou thryve, ywys’.
‘A, syr vycary, tel thou me,
What pennance yt schall be,
But sette me nought amysse;
Bnt ȝyf thou do, y do yt nought;
For evyr yt hadde be in my thought,
My lyfe to lede yn lysse’.
XII
‘A, son, thou most barfote goAnd wolward therto also
Alle these yerys sevene!’
‘Syr’, sayde thys outlawe, ‘nay!
Barfote ne wolward gon y may,
Though y schall never come in hevene’.
‘Sone’, he sayde, ‘never the latyr,
Maystou faste brede and watyr?
Lustyn vnto my stevene!’
‘Nay, ywysse, that myght y never;
To suffur deth me were lever,
Thenne more there of nevene’.
XIII
‘Thanne a pater nostyr loke thou sayAnd a ave every day
In remission of thy synne!’
‘Pater nostyr ne can y none
Ne ave Marye, by sent Jon,
I not never, where to bygynne’.
‘Maystou suffren no grefance?
Doon thou most som pennance,
Heven ȝyf thou wylt wynne.
Whyle thou art yong of age,
Do thou most som pylgrymage,
Eythyr more or mynne’.
XIV
‘On pylgrymage may y nought gonAnd alle so spendyng have y none;
To beggyn y ne can;
I hadde lever smyte of my heed,
Thanne y schulde beggyn my bred
Of woman or of man’.
The vyker torned to the cros hys hede
And sayde: ‘Lord, what ys thy red,
That alle thys world wan?
Suffre not thys man to spylle!’
He bad to good wyth so good wylle,
The terys out of hys eyȝe ran.
XV
‘Syr vykery’, he sayde, ‘have good day!There nys nothyng, that me helpe may,
I se yt ryght wel byforn.
Alle thou hast in waste ywrought,
For to don pennance may y nought,
Thow y schulde be forlorn’.
‘Sone’, he sayde, ‘lysten ȝyt to me!
Thorowe grace of god savyd maystou be,
That of Marye was born.
Tell me,’ he sayde, ‘wythouten bost:
What thyng hatystou to don most?
Tell me, wythouten shorne!’
XVI
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘so have y querteTo drynke watyr doth me most smerte,
The sothe for to say;
Never sythe y couthe sowke,
Watyr wolde never my body browke
For nought, that man do may.
‘Sone’, sayde the vyker, ‘what byfalle,
In remyssion of thy synnys alle
Drynk no watyr to day
And y assoyle the of thy synnys fre;
Loke, thys forward y-holde be,
No more penance y the pray.’
XVII
‘Syre’, he sayde, ‘yt schall be holde,The penance, that thou hast me tolde,
And ellys y were to blame;
Ȝyf yt be, as y thynke,
174
To suffre deth or schame.’
‘Fare wel,’ sayde the vykerye,
‘Thenke on god and crye hym mercye
And go on Chrystys name!’
‘Fare well, syr vycary,’ the outlawe sayde,
(Wyth thys penance he helde hym payde)
‘God wote, whan we meten in same.’
XVIII
Nowe mowe ye here a ferly thyng,How sone he fyl in fondyng,
From chyrche when he was went.
Unneth he hadde walkyd a myle,
Swych a thyrst hym tok that whyle,
Hym thought hys body to-brent.
He hadde lever have dronkyn a drawght,
Thanne alle the good, that ever he aught;
So sore com hys talent.
And as he walkyd in the strete,
Wyth a wenche gan he mete,
That semed hym semely gent.
XIX
On her hed sche bar a canne;The watyr over the brerde ran,
That semed hym fayre and cler.
‘Wenche,’ he sayde, ‘me thyrsteth sore.
If that watyr thou berest thare,
Set thonne thy pot ryght here!’
‘Syr,’ sche sayde, ‘at thy wyl
Here may thou drynke thy fylle!’
Sche made hym noble cheere.
He tok the pot and wolde drynke;
Sone on hys schryft he gan to thynke;
Tho wax he al in were.
XX
‘A, lord’, he sayde, ‘how may thys be,That thys lykyng falleth thus on me?’
(The watyr he gan beholde)
‘Yong ne olde y lovyd yt never
And now me were a drawght lever,
Thanne all thys world of golde;
And though y never forth schulde gon,
There of wyl y drynk none,
Deyghen thow y scholde’.
Wenche and pot he let there stonde,
(Hyt was the devyll, that hym gan fonde)
Thorough goddys grace drynk he nolde.
XXI
Forth he walkyth by the strete;An othyr wenche he gan mete;
A pot sche bar in honde,
A fayre dyssche therwyth also.
‘Wenche’, he sayde, ‘why dyr schaltou go?’
Sche gan abyde and stonde.
‘Syr,’ sche sayde, ‘seystou for why?
Ȝyf thou wylt drynke, yt ys alle redy,
None fayrer watyr in londe.’
Sche fyllyd a dyssche and to hym toke;
He thought on the vycar and yt forsoke;
The devyll thus hym gan fonde.
XXII
‘A, lovely lord, how ys thys?Swyche a thurst on me ys,
Me thynketh my hert wyl chine.
Thowe y never furthur schuld gon,
Water wyl y drynke none,
My lyf thow y schuld tyne.’
In that wyl he gan forthe passe
A furlonge wey and lasse;
175
By the wey he fond a welle;
A wenche ther in a pot gan fylle,
Ther watyr was cler as wyne.
XXIII
As he stode by the wellys banke,He ne myght stonde on foot ne schank,
So feble he was and faynt.
Vnneth he myght a worde speke;
Hym thought hys hert wolde to breke,
So thrust hym hadde atteynt.
He beheld the watyr, how yt ran
And how the wench fyllyd her canne;
For drynke he made hys playnt.
The wenche fyllyd a dyssch stofull
And bade the outlawe drynke a pull;
That schrewe was sleyȝ and queynt.
XXIV
As he stode at the wellys brynke,On hys knyfe he gan to thynke,
That hanged by hys syde.
He onbottoned a sleve of hys arme
And smote a veyne, that was ful warme
And made hyt blede that tyde.
Ther he drank hys owne blode;
Hym thought, hyt dyd hym moche gode;
The wownde was dep and wyde.
XXV
The outlawe bledde forthe wyth mayne;He nyst how to stop yt agayne
He bledde hard and sore,
Tyl he saw, that he schulde dye;
He fyll on hys knees and lowde gan crye:
‘Jesu, mercye, thyn ore!
Ne suffre nought my soule to spylle,
Lord, ȝyf hyt be thy wylle,
Of Mary thou were bore!’
Thus he prayd in that stownde,
Tyll he fell grouelynge to grownde,
That leven he myght no more.
XXVI
Then come out of the blysse of heveneMo angels, thanne y can nevene
Or wyth tunge telle
And toke the soule wyth joye and game
And let lygge that lykhame
Uppon the banke of the welle.
Forthe they wentyn everychone
By the ermytage sone anone,
Ther hys brothyr gan dwelle;
And whan he herde the angels songe
And hys brothyr hem amonge,
On knees to grownde he felle
XXVII
And sayd: ‘Lord, what may thys be,Thys myrthe and thys solempnite,
My brothyr ys now ynne,
That never wrought wel, ywys,
But alle hys lyf hadde ladde amys
And ay do wo and synne?
For to defoylen mayde and wyfe,
Thus he hath ledd hys lyfe;
Ne wolde he never blynne.
Now methynketh, y lyve to longe
Othyr ellys god deyth me wronge,
That he thus heven may wynne
XXVIII
And y, that suffre payn and wo,Evyl lygge and barfote go
And faste unto watyr and brede:
Here of me thynkyth grete ferly,
That he may com to heven or y,
For ever he was a queede.
I wyl be a owtlawe and non ermyte
And caste awey my grey abyte
176
And robbe and sle bothe on and othyr
And com to heven, as doth my brothyr;
Thys ys my beste reed.’
XXIX
Thus to God he gan to chyde;An angel com to hym that tyde
Ful hastly and ful blyue
And sayde: ‘Syr ermyte, y the sey,
Thy brothyr hath suffered more to day,
Than thou dedyst yn alle thy lyve.
Thys day he gan hys synnes forsake
And swyche a vyker hym penance gan take;
Clene he gan hym schryve.
To holde hys schryft hym self gan quelle
And ther he lyth at swyche a welle
And in hys honde the knyf.
XXX
Loke, ermyte, thou lete hym nought,To crysten grave that he be brought;
A martyr he ys to day.
Holde stylle thy lyfe, as thow began,
And be forthe ryght a gode man
And loke, what y the say,
And have no wondyr of goddys myght;
Hys mercy ys redy day and nyght
To alle tho that wylle to hym praye.’
Thus the angell the ermyte gan telle;
Ther wolde he no lengyr dwelle;
To blysse he went hys way.
XXXI
The ermyte went forthe anone,Tylle he to the place come,
Ther that the vycary was,
And sayd: ‘Syr, for charite,
A worde or to in pryvyte
Of a wonder cas.
I hadde a brothyr, an owtlawe bolde,
Thys day an angel sothe yt me tolde
Thorugh myght of godys grace.
Al hys lyfe he gan me telle
And ther he lyth at swyche a welle
Ded in that ylke plas.’
XXXII
The vycary sayde: ‘Sothe to say,Wyth me was swyche a man to day;
I knowe hym wel in mynde.
Go we and seke hym togeder!’
They wentyn, but they nyst whedyr,
Ȝyf they myght hym fynde.
On her way they gonne hem spede;
By dalys and downys forthe they ȝede,
They spared neythyr reyn ne wynde,
Tylle thay come, ther he lay ded
At a banke be syde a stede,
Fayre under a lynde.
XXXIII
A knyfe they fownde yn hys honde;Therfore the vycary gan understonde,
Wherefore yt was and why,
As he lay at that wellys banke,
That he hys owne blode dranke;
Hys mouth was alle blody.
Thys the vycary the ermyte gan telle:
‘To holde hys schryft hymself gan quelle.’
Thonkid god and mylde Marye.
To holy churche they hym gan brynge
And for hym dude rede and synge,
As he was welle worthy.
XXXIV
Thus the owtlawe heven wan;The ermyte was forthe a gode man,
As the angel thanne bade,
And aftyr, whanne he made an ende,
177
Wyth angels hys sowl was lad.
God graunt us grace in oure lyfe,
Of our synnes wel to schryfe
And oure penance don so sad!
Marye, to the y mene my mone,
In heven blysse that we may come
And make us alle blythe and glad.
Explicit the Eremyte and the Outelawe.
| The Eremyte and the Outelawe | |